One Strike
by Dorku No Renkinjutsushi
Summary: One strike, and it's over. SasuNaru, though interpretable as gen


**Title:** One Strike  
**Author:**Dorku no Renkinjutsushi  
**Rating:** PG-13 'cause I cuss like a trader…as impolitely and gracefully as you please, and in languages other than my own.  
**Disclaimer:** _Naruto_ is the property of Kishimoto-sensei, and I dare say he'd kill me if he knew I was doing this to his boys.  
**Summary:** One strike, and it's done…

* * *

"One strike, right?" he whimpers.

"Right," he whispers.

"It won't hurt, will it?"

It's funny how all their barriers peel away at a moment like this, at a moment when they need them more than they've ever needed them before. Right now, they hurt so much inside. They hurt so damn much, and that's what they made those fucking barriers for in the first place, right? So why when they need them the most do they shatter like glass?

For instance, he's never been this open to him before. Never. Not once has he truly cried in front of him. In front of each other, they play this stupid little game that was once just mine's bigger than yours but somewhere along the way developed into something much more morbid, destructive, volatile, and intimate. Their little games of strength and power grew and grew and grew until it became clear (to everyone but themselves) that they had no strength and no power; they had no control over anything.

And maybe that's why they are the way they are. Neither of them has any control over anything—not their lives, not their actions, nothing. So they do the worst thing they can think of. They try to fill this gap with controlling each other. Only it doesn't work. Well, not all the way. Sure, they control each other. At the same time, however, the other is controlling them and they know it. And they relish in it. Surely this is some sign of a malformed relationship schema.

He smiles bitterly. It's been a long time since he's sounded so much like that man. So very, very long. But it's only to be expected that he'd do that right now, right? After all, parts of his walls were to keep others out and that one thing inside. So when they crumble, everything inside rushes out and everything outside rushes in.

"No," he answers.

He can't believe he's saying this. They've never comforted each other before. They have always been the source of the other's pain. It's been a game, all these years. Who can get the other to scream uncle first. Who can keep the tears off his face the longest. All of their lives so far have been built into hurting one another.

But that's not entirely true, is it? after all, he's fairly certain they are one another's only comfort. They are each other's fire in the cold nights brought on by the sweeping winds of loss. They have held each other's hands through thick and thin, a silent reminder that neither one of them is alone. They've reknotted that little red thread so many times that he wouldn't be surprised in the slightest to find that they've made a fairy chain.

"Make a wish," he coughs.

"Huh?"

"Make a wish," he chokes, spitting blood to the side. "Didn't you learn anything as a child? It's what you're supposed to do when your fairy chain breaks."

He nearly passes out when he hears that. He knows he hasn't said any of his thoughts aloud. But the other is holding a tiny bundle of coloured threads in his shaking palm, and suddenly he understands. Gently, he grasps it in his hands.

He remembers making the bloody thing. They sat on the warm grass, trying to get the knots to work out properly. Like the egotistical bastards they were, they had refused each other's help, each trying to do it properly on his own. In the end, it had taken Sakura explaining that fairy chains were promises between two people and had to be made by two for them to start working together.

It shocks him to know that he has kept the little bundle of knotted string. Still squeezing his hand, he gropes through one of his own pockets, pulling out a little wad of orange and black threads.

"Heh. Should've known."

"Shut up."

"Hurry up and make your wish."

Is he really in that much of a hurry? Well, fine.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tightens his grasp on the fairy chain in his palm. He'll need all of his strength to break these threads, even though they're old and worn and brittle.

"Have…" cough, "you made…" choke, spit, "your wish?"

he leans over swiftly, sweeping warm lips over his. It's fast, and barely more than the pressure of butterflies wings. But it gets the intended message across.

The other man smiles gently, relaxing into the embrace. Tears start to fill his eyes, but still he smiles. They start to pour over his cheeks, but the smile remains in place.

"It won't hurt, right?" he whispers suddenly, still smiling despite his shaking voice and running tears.

"It won't hurt you at all," he murmurs, tightening his grasp.

And it's true. It won't hurt the other man at all. The only person who will be left hurt by this is him. And really, it's a small sacrifice (to give his sanity, his joy, his heart, his god-damn-fucking life) compared to what the other one is giving.

No, it won't hurt him in the slightest.

The only warning he gets is a small tightening of the muscles around his neck, a quick crescendo of sound, and a whispered phrase that's both promise and apology in one.

One strike, and it's done.


End file.
